


build a map to you

by carryokee



Category: Days of Our Lives
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryokee/pseuds/carryokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is a series of firsts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	build a map to you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a breakup fic, so there is also brief Will/OMC and Sonny/OMC. Also, this doesn't follow canon inasmuch as Arianna doesn't exist.
> 
> For rescuemama2007.

The first man you kiss after Sonny is named Mike. He has blond hair and hazel eyes and is taller than you. He looks nothing like Sonny, which surprises you a little because you always thought he would, that Mystery Man, whoever he turned out to be, would be dark-haired and dark-eyed and carry around a general Sonny-ness like a double exposure, Sonny there but not really, just enough to make your chest ache.

But it isn’t like that at all. Mike’s crisp and bright and beautiful in his own right, with a crooked smile and a contagious laugh and eyes that change color with the light. The day you kiss him, it’s sunny, which makes his eyes look almost green, and a second before your lips touch his, right before his eyes fall closed, you see something in them like _finally_. The same word caroms around inside your own head as you close your eyes, your fingers curling into his shirt to pull him closer. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon gum and his hand on your cheek is warm, his thumb brushing across your ear familiar but sweet. He smiles when you pull apart, breathing out and letting his hand fall to your neck. You feel his fingers against your skin and the heat in your cheeks as you smile back at him.

It doesn’t occur to you until much later, when you’re at work and Mike’s in class and hours of everyday life have passed since the two of you made dinner plans and said goodbye, that you haven’t freaked out at all. You always kinda figured you would, that kissing someone else after so much time spent kissing only Sonny would make you feel the need to lock yourself in the restroom and breathe deeply into a paper bag until the feeling passed. But it hasn’t.

The only thing you feel like doing is smiling.

+++

The first person you sleep with after Will is a guy named Darren. You don’t know anything else about him, really, except that his skin is the color of cocoa and he has big hands that wrapped firmly around your hips and held you in place as he sucked you off last night.

You told him your name is Jackson mostly because you’re still not quite ready to hear someone else call you Sonny during sex, but a little bit because you don’t really want to be Sonny anymore, not for a while at least. Sonny is lonely and brittle and halfway broken and you’re sick of walking around like half a person looking for the rest of your heart. You think if you can just keep moving, just keep putting one foot in front of the other, you’ll eventually outrun this sadness that keeps chasing you, that keeps grabbing at you with icy fingers, trying to drag you down. 

It hasn’t worked yet, but you keep trying. And when you wake up next to Darren, his arm slung across your stomach and his slow, even breaths warm against your shoulder, you think maybe today, finally, is the first day of the rest of your life. That today you stop waiting for Will to want you back and start accepting that he doesn’t. You never used to be this needy, this pathetic, and it angers you a little that you seem to be now. You used to value your independence and self-sufficiency, displaying them like trophies to your parents when they tried to tell you what to do. But that was before Will, before you willingly gave part of yourself to him, mistakenly thinking it would be in safe hands forever.

Darren stirs next to you, sliding his big hand down your side and over your hip, fingertips trailing across the top of your thigh and along the inside until his hand covers your fledgling erection. He smiles at you, pressing his lips to your skin, breathing his words against your cheek as he gives your cock a squeeze. “Good morning.”

You turn on your side to face him, throwing your leg over his hip and meeting his eyes. They’re lighter than they looked at the club, almost the color of caramel. He looks at you without blinking as he strokes you, pulling a low sound from your throat and forcing your eyes half closed. You reach for him, skimming your fingers across the bumps of his spine and lean in to push your words into his mouth.

“Fuck me,” you whisper.

So he does. You try not to remember what it felt like with Will, what it felt like to have him inside you, over you, around you. You never wanted to be that guy, the one who thinks about the one they lost while fucking someone else, but here you are doing just that, and no amount of saying Darren’s name or watching his face as he fucks you will change it.

He comes before you do and you shove him off before he can help you finish, rolling to the side of the bed and sitting up, elbows on your knees. You feel like you want to throw up. Maybe you should. Maybe if you do, whatever’s inside you that’s slowly killing you will finally be gone. He touches your back, his hand on your skin gentler than you expected from a stranger, and it breaks you. You actually start to cry, like really fucking cry, tears and snot and shaking shoulders, and you’re mortified and relieved all at once. Because… _finally_.

Darren stays until you stop crying, but then he leaves. You know you’ll never see him again. You don’t really want to, anyway.

+++

The first time it hits you that it’s over, that Sonny’s really gone, you’re standing in line at the grocery store holding a box of Kashi. You don’t eat Kashi. You never have. And after the first time Sonny made you try it, you swore you never would. But here you are with a box of it in your hand and the only reason you can think of for it is that you’re buying it for him. You saw the empty space in the cupboard where Sonny used to keep it and you added it to your mental grocery list without even thinking because buying the things he likes used to be automatic, like breathing. And how do you train yourself to stop breathing?

You stare at the box of cereal. You don’t know what to do. Buy it or put it back? Logic dictates putting it back, but where? Leave the line you’ve been standing in forever to put it back on the shelf or just leave it on the rack with the tabloids for someone else to put away? It should be an easy decision, but it isn’t, mostly because you can still hear the way the cereal used to crunch between Sonny’s teeth in the morning, can still picture the way his mouth moved when he chewed and the curl of his fingers around the base of the bowl as he leaned against the counter eating.

Fuck.

“Sir?”

You look up to see the cashier staring at you. The bagboy, too. Two sets of young eyes, a pair of young faces with politely quizzical expressions. You have the sudden urge to tell them about Sonny, about how you loved him but you let him go. No, not let him go. Stop lying to yourself. You pushed him away, forced him to tear you out of his life like paper from a spiral notebook. You wonder if they can see your frayed edge. You think they should be able to; it still feels raw and bloody enough to leave a trail behind you. You think it should be obvious to anyone who looks at you that half of you is missing.

You hand the box of cereal to the girl. “I don’t—” You can’t seem to make yourself say it. You clear your throat, start again. “I don’t need this anymore.”

+++

The first time you both have a four-day weekend without school or work, Sonny grabs you by the hand and drags you into the bedroom.

“We,” he says, grinning as he peels off his shirt, “are about to have a lot of really noisy sex.”

He doesn’t specify where, so it turns out to be pretty much everywhere, and some places more than once. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to look at the stove the same way again.

The night before real life returns, he’s got you folded in half on the sofa, his bare feet braced on the floor as he moves inside you. There’s not a lot of noise between you, just breath and a random collection of soft, wordless sounds. You touch him everywhere you can, his shoulders, his back, the perfect curve of his ass, the sweaty line of hair on the nape of his neck. All of it is yours, you think, it belongs to you. Just like all of you is his.

“I love you,” he whispers against your ear. “I love you so much.”

You reach up and turn his head until your mouths meet. You love him, too, so fucking much it hurts, and just saying it doesn’t seem like enough sometimes. You’ve heard enough lies, told enough yourself to know that words are apocryphal, that they can mean less than nothing. You prefer actions.

Breaking the kiss, you smile up at him. “Let me.”

He meets your eyes and nods, pulling out of you gently and letting you push him back onto the floor. You love him like this, sprawled out and naked, legs bent and open, waiting for you. You fit yourself between them, sitting on your knees. His hands are familiar and warm, his fingers tracing lines through your sweaty skin as they rest on your thighs. You reach down and remove the condom, tossing it aside and wrapping your hand around his cock to slowly stroke him, watching his eyes fall closed, his breath pushing out past his lips. You love that you can do this to him, unravel him like this, that you can make buttoned-up, perfect Sonny give in to his baser needs. You love that he trusts you enough to let you see him like this.

“You’re the best person I know,” you say, stroking him. “I don’t know why you love me.” You didn’t mean to say that, but you did and you can’t take it back. It’s the truth, anyway.

He opens his eyes and gives you a look so intense, you have to look away. You don’t deserve a look like that, like you’re everything to him. You shouldn’t be, because you’re not enough, not for him. You never will be.

“Will.”

You can’t look at him, so you close your eyes and tilt your head back instead, concentrating on the weight, the heat of him in your hand and the way he always sounds when he comes, like he just died a little but it’s okay, because you’re the one who killed him.

Then his hand is around yours, stopping it. “Will, look at me.”

It takes effort, but you do, you find the strength to meet his eyes. To your surprise, they’re shiny with tears. “Sonny…”

He sits up, his knees squeezing your ribs, and reaches out to touch your face. “I wish I could make you see what I see when I look at you,” he says. “Then you’d understand why I love you.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. You just curve your hand around the back of his head and pull him in for a kiss. He opens for you instantly, the smooth slide of his tongue against yours enough to pull a groan from your throat. He crowds closer, sliding into your lap, his arms snaking under yours to wrap around you. You feel the press of his fingertips against your skin, the edges of his teeth against your lip.

“Make us both come, Will,” he whispers into your mouth.

You reach for his cock again. It’s hard and leaking and when you touch it, his whole body shudders. You pull him against you with your other arm, holding him as close as you can, and readjust your grip so you’re stroking both your cocks at once. It feels insanely good, your vision going fuzzy at the edges, the rest of the world fading to black around you. There’s nothing else but this, nothing else that matters.

He pushes a hand into your hair and slides his mouth to your neck, sucking at your pulse. “Never—” he says, his words interrupted by a moan. “Never felt this way with anyone else.” He bites at your skin then soothes it with his tongue. “Only you, Will. Only ever you.”

You tip forward then, pressing him to the floor and bracing yourself on your arm so you can stroke faster. He wraps his legs around you, letting his arms fall to the floor and stretching them out above his head. He’s watching you, his lips parted and kiss-swollen, his sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. He’s never looked more beautiful.

“You’re mine,” you manage to say, gritting out the words through your teeth. “You’ll always be mine.”

And then you’re both coming.

+++

The first time you know you’re really going to leave, you’re lying beside Will, watching him sleep. Looking at him now, like this, there seems to be nothing more keeping the two of you apart than a few inches of empty sheets. It’s so easy to believe that all you’d have to do to bring him back to you is reach out and grab hold of him, to just pull him close and never let him go. But there’s more than just empty sheets between you. There are lies and insecurities and words designed to hurt. Picked fights and angry silences and enough missed chances to pave a road to the sun.

You’re tired of being pushed away. You’re tired of holding on when he’s already let go. You’ve tried so hard to convince him that you love him, that’s he’s enough for you. You’ve told him so many times that it’s started to sound like a lie, even to you. But it isn’t. It’s still true, even after everything. Even now, all you want to do is wake him, to look into those beautiful blue eyes and tell him that you love him, that you’ll always love him, that he’s all you’ve ever really wanted, all you’ll ever need. But he’s heard it all before a thousand times, a million, and he refuses to let himself believe it. And you’re tired of trying to make him.

He wants to end it, but he won’t. Either he can’t or he doesn’t know how. But you do. You know how to walk away. It’ll kill you to do it and you’ll hate yourself for it, but you can’t go on like this anymore, wanting but not having, sharing a bed but not a life. Neither of you can.

So you’ll let him go. It’ll be your last gift to him.

+++

The first really stupid fight you have is over about as quickly as it starts. 

Will’s on the couch, feet propped on one arm, eyes closed, mouth soft and slack with sleep. Usually, a scene like this makes you want to kick off your shoes and snuggle up against him, balancing precariously on the edge of the cushions until Will shifts and pulls you closer, holding you against him until you’re both asleep.

But not today. Today you give into your baser instincts, pushing the toe of one of Will’s dirty socks past those beautiful, sleep-soft lips and watching Will’s reaction develop with undisguised glee.

It doesn’t disappoint. Will sits up spluttering, his tongue pushing the sock from his mouth as his hand swipes across his lips to fend off further invasion. With his other hand, he plucks the sock from his lap and holds it up for closer inspection, blinking slowly at it. The sound of his brain piecing together what just happened is nearly audible.

“Something wrong?” you ask, smirking with more than a little gleeful malice.

Will looks up at you, a sour look on his face. “Sonny, what the hell?”

“Let me ask you something,” you say evenly, keeping your voice low. “Do I look like your maid?”

Will rolls his eyes and sinks heavily back onto the couch, tossing the sock carelessly on the floor. “Not this again,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes and burrowing back into the cushions, trying to get comfortable again. “Just leave ’em on the floor. I’ll get ’em later.”

“Sure,” you say, grinding your molars together. “Except you never do.”

“Because you don’t give me the chance.” Will’s arm is still over his eyes and it’s really kind of infuriating.

“I shouldn’t have to give you the chance,” you say, “because they shouldn’t be left on the floor in the first place. You know I’m right.”

“I’m sure you think you are.” The words are so soft, you’re not sure if Will actually said them or if you just wanted to hear them to appease that small but assertive portion of your mind looking for a fight. It takes you less than two seconds to decide it doesn’t matter.

Leaving Will to his temporary victory, you stalk into the bedroom and stand there breathing hard through your nose, letting your anger build. Underneath it all, you know it’s ridiculous to give in to it, but the delicious lick of heat spreading slowly beneath your skin feels so close to arousal, you just go with it, letting it take you over.

Digging through the hamper, you pluck out all of Will’s dirty clothes and, carrying them in one big bundle in your arms, walk back out to the living room. Will is still on the couch, arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising evenly with each carefree breath, the perfect picture of relaxation. Smiling, you say sweetly, “Will.”

Will pulls his arm away and blinks up at you, comprehension dawning on his face a second too late to get out of the way before he’s buried beneath an avalanche of dirty laundry. He stands up quickly, shirts and socks and underwear piling up at his feet, and glares at you.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Anger burns behind Will’s eyes, making them even bluer.

You hold his gaze without blinking. “My problem,” you say, “is that I have a boyfriend who thinks I’m his personal fucking housekeeper.” You motion to the laundry strewn about on the couch and carpet. “All this? Was only in the hamper because I put it there.”

“Well, it’s not there now, is it?” Will toes at the collection of clothes at his feet and gives you a snarky smile. “This must be driving you crazy.”

It is, a little. But you refuse to let it show. Instead, you shrug with careful nonchalance and let the comment pass. “I’m not the only one who lives here, Will. It wouldn’t kill you to pick up after yourself every once in a while.”

Will huffs. “You make me sound like such a slob. Like if it were left up to me, we’d be living in squalor.”

You smirk. “If the carelessly discarded shoe fits.”

“Fuck you,” Will says with heat. “Not everyone equates a lack of coaster use with the decline of civilization. They’re water rings, Sonny. Not one of the seven signs of the apocalypse.”

“Says the guy who thinks the epitome of cleanliness is using hand sanitizer.”

“What else am I supposed to think? You keep bottles of it everywhere! In the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the car, next to the bed. I finally had to move it to the dresser after that time we confused it for the lube.”

“Not ‘we,’ Will. You,” you say. “Since when does lube come with a push pump, anyway?”

Will’s jaw clenches, the muscle knotting beneath his skin. “Excuse me for being so aroused that I lost track of my surroundings. Next time we fuck, I’ll be sure to stop right in the middle and take a careful inventory of the room before proceeding.”

You laugh at that, you can’t help it, the sudden ridiculousness of this argument enough to squash your anger. “My ass burned for an hour after that.”

Will grins. “I tried to pull out, but you wouldn’t let me.”

You grin back at him. “Are you kidding me? I’d have to be crazy to let you do that.”

“And you’re not crazy, is that it?” he says, eyes twinkling.

You wiggle your eyebrows. “Only about you, big boy.”

He laughs. “Oh my god.”

You feign offense. “What?”

“That was so cheesy.”

You grin. “No way. That was awesome.”

Will gives you a look. “Sonny. I could make nachos out of that line.”

You feel yourself blush. Only Will can make you do that. “Whatever,” you say. “It’s still totally true.”

Will steps closer, reaching out to touch your cheek. Then he kicks at the pile of dirty clothes at his feet and smiles. “Whaddya say we get a little dirty ourselves?”

Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, you pull him closer, meeting his eyes. “I’ll bring the hand sanitizer.”

+++

The first thing Sonny says to you the day he leaves is, “You win.” He’s sitting at the kitchen table with his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, not looking at you. 

“Excuse me?” Your voice sounds strained. But you heard him just fine. You know what it means.

He lifts his head to look at you. He looks terrible, weighed down and bruised beneath his skin, but his eyes are dry. You think that this, his dry eyes, is the detail you’ll remember the most, the one thing you can pinpoint later as proof that he never really loved you after all. Because if he did, he’d be crying, right? He should be crying when he leaves you.

It’s all bullshit, of course. You know Sonny. He doesn’t cry, not the way you do. He’s an expert at brushing your tears away, but an amateur at shedding his own. He’s always worn his pain on the inside, where only he can see it.

“I’m ending it,” he says, “because you won’t. Because it’s what you want. Because if I don’t, I’m gonna end up hating you. And I don’t—” He swallows. “I don’t want to hate you, Will.”

You want to argue, but the words won’t come. It suddenly hits you with startling clarity that he’s right. You can’t deny you’ve been pushing him away, too wrapped up in your own idea of what his happiness should be to accept his own definition of it. More and more, all you’ve been able to see is how miserable he is, how trapped, how held hostage he is in his life with you. You want to tell him that you’re doing this for him, but _you’re_ not doing anything except standing here with a painful stab of gratitude in your gut and a vise around your heart. It’s a curious feeling, this mixture of relief and despair, and you don’t know yet how to react to it. All you feel right now is an inexplicable urge to apologize.

He stands up, his hands flat on the table like he needs them to hold himself up. You look at them instead of his eyes when he says, “I love you. That’s all. I don’t know how else to say it.”

The sound of the door closing behind him is the loudest sound you’ve ever heard.

+++

The first time you make love with Mike, it isn’t planned. You always thought it would be, every last detail planned down to the music playing in the background and the color of the sheets, the time penciled in on your calendar. After all, your entire relationship with him has been an exercise in playing it safe.

But that’s not how it happens at all. 

You’re sitting across from him at his tiny dining table helping him study, flipping through his handwritten flashcards one after the other after the other. He doesn’t need them, never has, but his neurotic insistence that he does is incredibly endearing. He’s like the smartest person you’ve ever known, a walking database of knowledge that you found a bit intimidating at first until you discovered that underneath the Jeopardy! computer exterior was an incredibly sweet man who reminded you that life hadn’t ended after all.

You’re trying to make him laugh. Flipping to the next flashcard, you pretend to read, suppressing a smile, “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

In the warm light of the lamp, his eyes look almost gold when he focuses them on you. “Will.” You can tell he’s trying not to smile.

“What?” You point to the card. “That’s what it says, I swear.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

You draw a large X over your heart with the tip of your index finger. “Cross my heart.”

“And hope to die?”

You grin at him. “Well, let’s not get carried away.”

He smiles in that way that says you’re about to learn something you never really wanted to learn. “Woodchucks are rodents, you know. Marmots, to be exact.”

You suppress a sigh. You have no one to blame but yourself. “Oh, really? Huh. That’s so interesting.”

He leans back in his chair, meeting your eyes across the table. His smile has retreated into an amused smirk. “They’re also known as whistle-pigs, land beavers, and groundhogs.”

You perk up at that last bit. “Like the little guy who predicts the weather?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “You mean Punxsutawney Phil. And he doesn’t predict the weather, Will. You know that, right? He’s a groundhog.”

“Whatever,” you say. “All I know is that when he says there’s going to be six more weeks of winter, I make sure I have my coat.”

Mike laughs at that and you grin, too. You feel good when you’re around him. It’s nice to know you still can, that even though there are days when you still feel Sonny’s absence like a physical thing, aching like a phantom limb, they’re getting fewer and farther between. Most of the time, this new thing with Mike outweighs the rest, taking the weight off your smile and allowing it to be that much brighter.

He gets up to get a drink and brings you back one, too. You’re still holding his flashcards and when he sets the glass in front of you, he snatches the cards from your hand. “Give me those,” he says. “Because clearly you’re out to sabotage me.” 

And that’s when you know it’s going to happen, that you’re going to kiss him in a way that tells him you want more, that you want him, that you’re ready to take the next step.

When you do, he kisses you back, and it takes you a second to realize that the thunk you just heard is the stack of flashcards hitting the table. His hands are on your face then, fingers in your hair, and the press of his body against yours tells you all you need to know. You break the kiss, catching your breath, and he presses his forehead to yours and smiles.

“You really are trying to sabotage me,” he says, tracing the shell of your ear with the pad of his thumb.

You start to pull away, pulling back to meet his eyes and playfully raising your eyebrows at him. “If you’d rather study…,” you say, loosening your grip on him.

He tightens his fingers on you, keeping you close. His lips are wet and he’s breathing heavily as he looks at you with darkened eyes. He wants you, you know it for sure now, and the knowledge of it makes you lightheaded. You’re suddenly a little nervous.

He leads you to the bedroom and your hands tremble a little as you undress him.

It’s not until after, when you’re curled up beside Mike, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, too hot but too comfortable to care, that you think about Sonny. You remember being with him like this, just the two of you, the closeness of it, the smell of him on your skin. You remember him saying it would be forever and how that became impossible. You remember how you still miss him, even now. And it hurts, but not too much, just a dull sort of ache under your sternum like a fading bruise. 

Mike’s fingers trace the curve of your cheek. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” he asks. There’s not an ounce of accusation in his voice, but the words still sting a little.

To your embarrassment, you feel the sudden burn of tears in your eyes. You close them, trying to hide. The last thing you want to do is hurt him, to make him think you regret being with him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. It’s all you can say.

He moves closer to you, sliding his fingers through your hair, brushing his thumb across your damp eyelashes. “It’s okay.” He kisses your forehead, your nose, your eyes, his lips so soft against your skin, like a caress. “It’s okay.”

When you make love this time, you don’t close your eyes.

+++

The first time you tied Will up, you only did it because he asked you to. You were unsure about it at the time because your sexual relationship was still so new and Will’s experience was so limited. You were afraid that even something as harmless as a little light bondage might scare him away when all you wanted was to keep him close. But he was so earnest when he asked you, so adorably shy, there wasn’t any possible way you could tell him no.

When you actually did it, you made the knots so loose, Will was able to slip his hands right through them on the first tug. The look he gave you was a mix of surprise and irritation so exquisite, you couldn’t help but laugh.

He glared at you with darkened eyes and said through his teeth, “Fucking tie ’em like you mean it, Sonny.” It was one of the hottest things anyone’s ever said to you.

You think about that now as Matt fucks you, the skin of your wrists chafed and red beneath the silk knotted around them. They’re too tight; your fingers are starting to go numb. And the more you strain against them, the tighter they get. But it’s good, too, the perfect mixture of pleasure and pain, and when you close your eyes and tip your head back, Matt speeds up, fucking you harder. You groan, catching yourself before Will’s name comes tumbling out of your mouth. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Matt’s a nice guy and exceedingly good in bed, but you don’t love him. He doesn’t love you, either, so the fact that you sometimes think about Will when you’re in bed together doesn’t really make you feel all that guilty. It would have a year ago, when your break from Will was still fresh and raw, when every breath felt like razor blades in your lungs. But now the pain has dulled. You no longer seek it out like a tongue seeks out a missing tooth, prodding the empty space for what used to be there. You’ve learned not to pick at it. You’ve trained yourself to remember only the surface of your memories.

This thing you have with Matt could be categorized as friends with benefits except you’re not really friends. You’ve hiked a few trails with him, had a few beers, but he’s really more like an acquaintance. You met him through Brent, a friend of a friend of a roommate or something, and the first thing he ever told you was an elaborate dirty joke involving two priests and a confessional that took five minutes to tell and whose punchline had to be explained. The utter ridiculousness of it made you laugh like you used to. You’d almost forgotten you could do that and it felt so good, you still find yourself gravitating towards him whenever he’s around, hoping to feel that again.

Only you don’t. You realize now that you probably can’t, that it’s like heroin – you’d just need more and more to get the same feeling you had the first time, and you don’t like him well enough to spend that much time with him. Or maybe you like him too much to use him up like that. Whatever it is, it probably needs to end.

But you’ll worry about that later.

Right now, you can feel your orgasm building, the telltale tightening in your balls and the heat in your belly spreading slowly beneath your skin. You hitch up your legs and push against his thrusts the best you can, gritting your teeth against the pain in your wrists. “Come on, come on,” you push out through your teeth.

“Fuck yeah, Sonny,” he breathes, digging his fingers into your hips, fucking you even harder, tearing sounds from your throat. “Fuck. Yeahhhhh.” And he’s coming, two rough pulls on your cock dragging you close behind him. 

He pulls out and slumps beside you, dragging his fingers through the come on your belly and pressing a kiss to the side of your chest, letting his lips linger against your skin. It’s a surprisingly intimate gesture, one he’s never done before, and it reminds you of someone else. Of him. Before you can stop yourself, you say the words out loud.

“Will used to do the same thing.” You don’t regret saying it, though you probably should, if the way Matt’s fingers halt on your skin are any indication.

Matt huffs a breath and sits up, untying your wrists. The knots are so tight, he has to tug at them with his teeth, and when you massage your skin, the sting brings tears to your eyes.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

+++

The first time you realize you want Sonny back, Mike has to tell you.

Of course, you deny it at first. “If you want to break up with me, then just do it. But don’t give me this bullshit about wanting Sonny back. Because I don’t. That part of my life is over. Sonny is part of my past. I’ve moved on with my life.” A voice inside your head whispers something about protesting too much, but you ignore it.

It’s overcast today and Mike’s eyes look gray-green. All he says is, “You still love him.”

It isn’t a question, but you answer anyway, without hesitation, and in that instant, you know that everything you just said is bullshit. “Yes.” Too late you add, “But I love you, too.”

Mike smiles at that. He doesn’t look hurt, only sad. You hate yourself a little. “No, you don’t,” he says, shaking his head.

“Yes, I—” 

“Will. It’s okay.” He meets your eyes. “I don’t love you either. Not the way you want.”

You gape at that, your mouth hanging open at the surprise of it. You have absolutely no idea what to say to that.

Mike leans across the table and takes your hand. His fingers are cold from his iced coffee and you squeeze them out of reflex. “When I met you, you were broken,” he says softly. “Hollow inside, like one of those chocolate bunnies.” His smile flashes, there and gone. “But you’re not broken anymore.”

Your throat tightens. “Thanks to you.”

Mike shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.” He puts up his hand when you try to interrupt. “My point is, Will, you miss him. You’ve always missed him. You’re not hollow anymore, but there’s still an empty place inside you only he can fill. And you won’t be completely happy until he does.”

You give him a crooked smile. “There’s a joke in there somewhere.”

He squeezes your hand, smirking. “I’m trying to be noble and selfless here. Stop ruining it.”

“Selfless? I thought you didn’t love me.”

He smiles. “You’re like a brother to me.”

You make a face. “God, don’t say that. We’ve had sex.”

Mike laughs and just like always, it makes you want to laugh, too. After a moment, the laughter dissolves into a comfortable silence and as you sit there looking at each other across the table, the seconds ticking by, you realize how much he’s meant to you. For months he’s been your rock, your touchstone, your foundation. He’s pulled you up off your knees and helped you stand again. And now he’s letting you go.

“I’ll miss you,” you whisper.

The hug he gives you is warm and a little desperate, and you hold on to him just as fiercely, turning your face into his neck and closing your hands in his shirt, breathing him in. You want to remember this, all of his details.

Pressing his lips against your ear, he says, “Go find him.”

+++

The first time you set foot back in Salem, you’re amazed it’s as easy as it is. You’ve spent so long running away from it, you figured it would be harder to come back. You kept imagining the town itself throwing up roadblocks to bar your entry, the townspeople circling Horton Square with flaming torches to keep you out. You know Will’s here, that he never left. He no longer lives in the apartment you once shared, but he’s here in town. He’s beloved here. Salem was always more his home than yours; he was the only reason you ever wanted to stay.

You go straight to the mansion. It’s only the third time you will have seen your mom since you broke up with Will and the first two times didn’t go too well. The first time was right after it happened, when her mouth said I’m sorry but her eyes said I told you so, or at least that’s how you saw it. You screamed at her then because you could, because you knew she’d let you, because it was either that or cry and you were afraid once you started that, you’d never be able to stop. So you screamed and screamed and watched her tears fall silently down her face and barely let yourself hear her say she loved you as you slammed the door behind you.

The second time was quieter, but just as tense. It was Christmas, and you met your family in Copenhagen because your dad asked you to come. Your mom could barely look at you without tearing up, and though you flinched at the memory of how you treated her, you couldn’t bring yourself to apologize. It had only been three months since you walked away from Will, since your life went off the rails, and you weren’t quite ready to relinquish your anger, to give up the hard-won selfishness you used like a shield against the rest of the world.

But this time when you see your mom, you open your arms to her. She hugs you like you’ve just walked through the door after being lost at sea. And it feels like that a little, like you’ve fought your way back from the bottom of the ocean, chasing that ripple of light. You feel like you’ve finally broken the surface.

Because you’re not just here to make up with your mother. You’re here to get Will back.

+++

The first time you try to call Adrienne, your hands are shaking so badly, you hang up before she answers. Not that she’d really want to talk to you anyway, but you know she knows where Sonny is and you really need her to tell you. You’ve never needed anything so badly in your life.

You try again, counting the rings, feeling your heart pound against your sternum. When she answers, you can’t find your voice.

“Hello?” she says a second time. The impatience in her voice tells you she’s about to hang up and you force out the words before she does because you’re not sure you’ll have the courage to call back.

“Where’s Sonny?”

There’s a pause on the line, a low hum of silence. It’s been ages since you’ve spoken, but you can tell she knows it’s you.

“Leave him alone.”

You grip the phone harder, your nails biting into the plastic. “Tell me where he is. Please.”

More silence, longer this time. You want to scream into it just to break it up. You can feel time slipping past you, faster than it has since Sonny left. Each passing second is one less you have to get your life back.

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

You close your eyes. That’s probably true, you think. After everything you’ve done, why would he? But you have to try. Ever since Mike opened your eyes to the truth, your truth, it’s all you can see. 

“He doesn’t want to see me or you don’t want him to see me?”

You can almost feel her anger over the phone. “Haven’t you hurt him enough, Will? Haven’t you—”

“I love him, Adrienne,” you tell her, cutting her off. “I’ve always loved him. I’ve never stopped loving him. And I know you don’t believe that and I know you think I don’t deserve him, that I’m not—”

+++

The first thing you hear when you put your mom’s phone to your ear is, “—good enough for him. I used to think the same thing. And I lost him because of it. He walked away from me because I couldn’t believe he could possibly love me as I was. I was a loser, I was nothing, and he was so beautiful and strong and perfect. How could he possibly want to be with me? But I’m a different person now. And I want him back. I know how much I’ve hurt him, and I know I don’t have the right to ask for one, but I want another chance. I want the chance to show him who I am now. I want the chance to show him I’m still someone he can love.” There’s a sniffle on the line and you close your eyes against it. You want more than anything to be able to touch him right now, to brush the tears from his cheek and feel the warmth of his skin. 

“Please, Adrienne,” Will says, his voice nearly a whisper. “Please tell me where he is.” 

You smile. “I’m here, Will,” you say, ignoring the heat of your mother’s glare on your back. There’s a lump growing in your throat; you can barely get the words out. “I’m right here.”

+++

The first time you see him again, you can hardly breathe. He’s just as beautiful as he always was. And as you stand there looking at him, it’s like time just suddenly rewinds, and all the hurt and the pain and the jagged shards of memory that have clawed out your insides over the last year just dissipate, leaving behind the crisp, clean memory of when you first loved him.

+++

The first time you stand on Hat Shop Trail and see the cluster of balanced-rock hoodoos with your own two eyes, it’s even more amazing than you expected. It’s awe-inspiring and breathtaking and makes you feel diminutive in a part-of-something-bigger-than-yourself sort of way. You take a picture with your cell phone and frown at the result. It’s not nearly the same.

Will walks up beside you, bending at the waist with his hand on his knee, trying to catch his breath. He grips your forearm with his other hand and looks up at you. “I thought you said,” he says, taking a breath, “this was a moderate level trail.”

You grin down at him. “It is,” you say. “But unfortunately, you’re a beginner-level hiker.”

He tries to stick his tongue out at you, but he can’t sustain it and you laugh, pulling him up and putting your arms around him, smiling when you feel his go around you. He’s sweaty and hot, but you bury your nose behind his ear anyway and close your eyes. You still can’t believe you have him back, that he’s here in your arms, pressed against you, his heartbeat strong against your chest. You never thought you’d have this again outside your dreams. But here he is, and you’re never letting him go again.

You pull back to meet his eyes. They’re the blue of summer skies and every time you look at them, you think of home. It hasn’t been easy since you got him back, but the best kind of forgiveness is hard-won. There are still times when you get angry thinking about all the time you lost, when you just want to blame him for all the scars that haven’t healed yet, for the ones that haven’t faded. And you know sometimes he still hates you a little for walking away, for not fighting for him, for finally giving up. But then you remember what it felt like without him, how it felt to walk through your days counting the minutes, knowing that if you could just string enough of them together, you’d reach the next day and the next. You don’t ever want to go back to that again.

His face is flushed from sunburn and exertion and when you kiss him, you taste the salty tang of sweat on his lips. “I love you,” you tell him when you pull away, brushing your thumb across his cheek.

He takes your hand and presses a kiss to your palm, twining his fingers with yours. Then he looks at you and smiles. “I know.”


End file.
